Bumper-Sticker Theology - NOT poetry

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Bumper-Sticker Theology

V: God Said It. I Believe It. That Settles It.
R: What is “It?”

V: God is My Co-Pilot
R: Obviously not today. Both hands on the wheel, please, and put the MePhone down.

V: My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter
R: How does He sign your paycheck?

V: Put Christ Back into Christmas
R: He was never out of Christmas. Maybe your Christmas, but that was your choice.

V: Follow Me to The Bright Light Free Will Four Square Full Gospel Missionary Temple Outreach of the Lord Jesus Christ of the Lamb
R: No.

V: Republican. Conservative. Christian.
R: Why so many adjectives?

V: Faith Over Fear
R: Not the way you’re driving

V: Do You Follow Jesus This Close?
R: “Closely.”

V: Got Jesus?
R: Anyone who rewrites an advertising slogan – and without copyright attribution – to make a theological point has nothing to share.

V: Caution! Pro-Life Christian Gun Owner!
R: Irony eludes you.

V: Honk if You Love Jesus. Text While Driving if You Want to See Him.
R: Okay, that one’s pretty good.

V: Jesus Is My Air Bags
R: Thus air bags is Jesus?

V: Who Saved Who?
R: Whom

Poppies Whispering - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Poppies Whispering

“I have no desire to make windows into men’s souls”

-Elizabeth I

The freedom not to wear a poppy gives
A man another good reason to wear it

Mandating public patriotism gives
A man just one reason not to wear

A poppy in remembrance of those lads
Who died among red poppies far away

Canadians who chose to serve our Canada

And so

I choose to wear a poppy for them all

And for you

God bless Canada

At the End We Are But Wreckages - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

At the End We Are But Wreckages

Here at the end we are but wreckages
Holed and hulled and breached, listing and adrift
Sending for help on silent radios -
We are but menaces to navigation

Worn out hulks, battered in the battles of life
Great victories, sometimes, and more defeats
And our strongest weapons now are only
Plastic pill cases molded in color codes

Here at the end we are but wreckages
Except – except when I remember you

If Online Retailers Controlled the Lubyanka - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

If Online Retailers Controlled the Lubyanka

The concrete corridors, damp from dark fear
Echo the heavy boots and occasional screams
The overhead fluorescents flicker like
Irregular heartbeats in dying men

In a numbered room a beaten man weeps
Through battered, swollen eyes, and in his pain
Unknown hours of beatings, blood, and pain
He can barely hear his tormentor’s words:

“We are not going to ask you again:
What was the name of your childhood pet?”

The Dragon Behind the Tractor Shed - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Dragon Behind the Tractor Shed

If, when we were children, we had seen a dragon
Behind the tractor shed or beneath a tree
We would have been frightened,
                                                         but not surprised

The Human in the Coal Mine - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Human in the Coal Mine

From a thought by Tod Mixson

The buzzards in the coal mine shift their claws
And watch the human breathe
The buzzards in the coal mine work their beaks
And watch the human breathe

The buzzards in the coal mine swing their wings
And watch the human breathe
The buzzards in the coal mine wait and wait
And watch the human breathe

The buzzards in the coal mine gleefully note
That the human has ceased to breathe

Confiteor Aboard a Life Raft - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Confiteor Aboard a Life Raft

He went over the side in the middle of the night
How could we let that happen?
He was one of us. He was us.
Surely not everyone was sleeping

It was not his choice. It was ours.
In what we have done
And in what we have failed to do
We let it happen. We failed to love

Now he is lost at sea
But not as lost as we

The True, Real Meaning of Thanksgiving, and, Like, S...tuff - not exactly a poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The True, Real Meaning of Thanksgiving, and, Like, S…tuff

On the GossipNet:

You don’t know what the real meaning of Thanksgiving is the Pilgrims were wicked the Pilgrims were sent by God the Indians were wicked the First Nations were living Green Squanto was a Catholic no he wasn’t Squanto was a Canadian there was no Canada You don’t understand the real meaning of Thanksgiving colonialist genocide religious freedom you don’t know history the Pilgrims were intolerant if only these here schools taught history I blame the Catholics…

Around the Table:

My latest surgery you don’t understand YOU KIDS SIT DOWN WE’RE ABOUT TO HAVE THE BLESSING, D*** IT! the pain no you can’t tell me nothin’ about pain YOU KIDS NEED TO LET THE ADULTS TALK! now just a little turkey because YOU KIDS SIT UP STRAIGHT! of my bowel movements YOU KIDS NEED TO BE GRATEFUL; WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE…! now just a little dressing because OF COURSE YOU CAN LEAVE THE TABLE AND GO WATCH CARTOONS I’LL GET YOU SOMETHING FROM THE SONIC LATER of my blood sugar levels well WHAT ARE YOU KIDS DOING IN THERE!? maybe just a little cornbread because DID YOU FLUSH!? of my weight loss program DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE AND WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT WITH SOAP D*** IT! that was on Oprah ONE…TWO….DON’T MAKE ME GO TO THREE! NO I MEAN IT THIS TIME ONE…! let me tell you about it well HE DIDN’T MEAN TO BREAK IT AND IT’S NOT AN EXPENSIVE PIECE maybe just a little iced tea but no I KNOW THIS TIME IT’S FOREVER AND HE LOVES TRAY-BOY LIKE HE WAS HIS OWN SON sweetener because a quaint native healer from India THAT’S IT YOU KIDS GIT YOUR ASSES OUTIDE! says that tea is a cultural appropriation YES MY LITTLE HONEY BUNNY I KNOW YOU DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT THE PUPPY and that sugar is a fascist symbol of white male oligarchical dietary oppression GAMMAH THAT’S ENOUGH WINE DON’T YOU THINK…so like we’re raising the kids to be spiritual but not religious…OH S*** WHAT DID YOU GET INTO…!!!

L’Envoi:

Giving thanks? Sure, whatever you say
(I just wish these people would go away)

Grüne Gewölbe: Dresden 2019 - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Grüne Gewölbe: Dresden 2019

“…where thieves break through and steal…”

-Saint Matthew 6:19

And so it came to pass that thieves broke through
To steal some shiny things; they left their souls
There to decay among fragmented glass
Unhappy ghosts who somehow lost their way

The Elbe cannot wash away men’s sins
Nor can the priests at the Frauenkirche
Unless a sinner kneels among his loss
And confesses the wreckage of his work

Now may it come to pass that Grace breaks through
To heal all wandering souls, and give us life

Are We Celebrating Christmas Wrong? - newspaper column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Are We Celebrating Christmas Wrong?

Well, yes, we are.

That is, if we believe the generations of Miz Grundys yapping forth on the InterGossip and in the news and in the advertisements.

‘Tis the season when almost every posting tells us how we have been doing Christmas all wrong and how some newly-invented-old-timey-tradition-dating-back-to-last-week will make it all better if we will only obey.

Hey, it’s on the InterGossip; it must be right.

But there is nothing new in this conceptual shifting. In the 17th century the Puritans in no-longer-merry England and thus in the colonies banned Christmas as popish and pagan. Grumpy Scotland had outlawed Christmas a hundred years before and for the same reasons. Christmas was slowly restored in England with, well, the Restoration, but Scotland did not recognize the holiday again until 1958.

Imagine 400 years without Christmas. It’s as if C. S. Lewis’ White Witch were in charge all that time.

Evergreen decorations were common, but Christmas trees were little known in England and the U.S.A. until Queen Victoria married Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (turn left at the next road; it’s out back behind the second dairy barn), who missed the German tradition. Victoria and Albert had a tree imported from Germany and decorated it themselves. 1848 is usually given as the year when having a Christmas tree became a fashion in the English-speaking world since the royals were totally cool.

Only in 1870 was Christmas recognized as a national holiday in the U.S.A., and that was through a decree by President Grant.

Still, in many places influenced by the Puritans Christmas was honored only reluctantly.

Certain television producers, probably not Puritans but for reasons of their own, insisted in 1965 that Linus not read St. Luke’s Infancy narrative in A Charlie Brown Christmas, but in the event that center of the story – because it is the center of Creation – was finally allowed by The Suits, and we are the richer for it.

Shifting fashions continue to change our perceptions of Christmas. Many consider the Christmases of our childhood as the norm, but our children don’t see it that way. And, really, neither did our parents or grandparents, who sometimes grumbled that having electric lights on the tree somehow didn’t seem right, and that a kid ought to be happy with some oranges and a few little toys stuffed into a sock. But then they bought us lots of toys (and socks and underwear – too thrilling) anyway, so hooray!

And if in this season we get off the metaphorical trail a bit, well, we have Linus and his familiarity with Saint Luke to remind us of the way.

-30-

The Possums of Autumn - newspaper column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Possums of Autumn

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”

-Keats, “To Autumn”

In East Texas autumn is the gentlest season, first shooing away the fierce heat of the summer and then admitting those refreshing cool fronts from the north borne on soft winds. To step outside in the summer heat is almost painful, to step outside in autumn is a joy.

Autumn is erratic here, and while it progresses eventually to frosts and even an occasional rare freeze, the thermometer, hygrometer, and barometer are given lots of exercise in the variations.

On one morning the fields might be frosted almost to the aesthetic approval of Currier & Ives, and the next morning might be a matter of wasps and bees and minding the snakes.

Crows seem to be more numerous in November, and they are certainly noisier. Geese, seemingly happier birds, honk and squeak in their V formation migration, and from a nearby pond one can hear the happy quacking of ducks taking a break from their own travels. The other day we saw a huge egret frogging among the reeds in a watery roadside ditch. He looked at us disapprovingly, but he needn’t have been snotty for I don’t imagine the frogs thought highly of the egret.

This morning is warm and damp, and ground strawberries and tiny yellow flowers accent the grey sky and the wind-shoaled fallen leaves all ruddy and yellow and brown.

The little dogs are sniffing indignantly at the scents left by wild visitors in the dark hours. Yesterday evening I released the pups for their night patrol and they quickly found a large possum who had been minding its own business while quietly browsing around for some supper.

Every dachshund thinks it is a timber wolf, and separating the two dogs and the possum was a challenge. I managed to nab Astrid-the-Wonder-Dog first, since she is more of a loud spectator than a participant, and hustled her into the house. Luna-Dog, 16 pounds of fury, was more of a challenge. She is kind and loving and sweet to her humans, but death to numerous snakes, two possums, one racoon, and, sadly, two turtles (I didn’t move fast enough, and the turtles couldn’t move fast enough).

Luna-Dog did not want me to have the possum she was gnawing, and so there was a bit of a chase. A dachshund can’t run fast while dragging a possum its size, and I was finally able to pull the dog away (under protest) and carry her, too (she was calling for a point of order), to the house.

I returned to the arena of combat with a shovel for tossing the dead possum over the fence, but the critter had only fainted and now, having had enough of bothersome dachshunds, it was scrambling up an oak tree.

Perhaps we all slept better for the exercise.

Autumn. Nice.

-30-

The Ontological Deconstruction of Neo-Colonialism - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Ontological Deconstruction of Neo-Colonialism and, Like, Stuff

One wants to disrupt
Those who say they are disruptive
One wants to subvert
Those who say they are subversive
One wants to defy
Those who say they are defiant

And those who say they are influencers
Can go influence themselves

OK Boomer - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

OK Boomer

V: OK Boomer
R: O.K., Greta

A Few Kind Words for the Bad Thief - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Few Kind Words for the Bad Thief

“Omnes enim peccaverunt et egent gloriam Dei”

When a man is arrested by an occupying force
Imprisoned by an occupying force
Humiliated by an occupying force
Beaten and whipped by an occupying force
Stripped naked and jeered by an occupying force
Tortured to death by an occupying force

He can be forgiven intemperate words
Screamed out in the last agony of death

Lost Between Worlds on a Saturday Morning - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Lost Between Worlds on a Saturday Morning

The Doorway Effect

Where am I?

A thought – it is remember’ed to me
To check the clothes in the washing machine
Or is it the wash in the clothing machine?
And so I leave my desk and book and thoughts

And wander off along the tiny rooms
And narrow passages of a mid-century
Ranchette, that home of dreams for those
Who lived The Depression and then The War

The hallway is familiar, pictures redeemed
From the ’59 S & H Green Stamp book
Wall sconces from Montgomery Ward
The genuine Westminster doorbell chimes

But why am I here?

Out of focus, out of thoughts, out of sorts
I return to my desk and book and thoughts
And wonder why I left…
                                            the washing machine
Solid at Sears, as they used to say

Down the hallway again…focus…focus

Clean clothes are nice

The Return of "The Yellow Peril" - weekly column, 11.21.19

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Return of “The Yellow Peril”

The Chinese are out to disease white people out of existence. It must be true; it’s on the InterGossip at http://www.smalldeadanimals.com/.

To anyone who managed to pass the sixth grade such a Jack Chick-y fantasy is down there in an intellectual gutter with The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the C.I.A. inventing A.I.D.S., anti-vaxxing, man-made global warming, and The Lizard People.

The problem with the first amendment is the same as with all the other amendments: freedom by its nature requires rational thought and rational behavior. Flickering images and noises on a little screen won’t get it done.

The article in question states that “China has the genomic sequence of every single person that’s been gene typed in the U.S., and they’re developing bioweapons that only affect Caucasians.”

Yes, and that information is stored in a super-secret bunker bat cave two miles below the surface of Oak Island, Nova Scotia, and is guarded by a phalanx of albino monks with glowing red eyes.

Caucasians, who mostly are not from the Caucasus, are just as human as anyone else. More than that, all races are mixed up more than a dog’s breakfast. “Caucasian” is a catch-all and useless term for white people, who aren’t really white and who live in all sorts of places, including China. “Chinese” is almost as pointless as “Caucasian” because some 56 different ethnic groups live in China (https://www.chinadiscovery.com/ethnic-minority-culture-tour/ethnic-minorities-in-china.html).

There can be no racial selective bio-weapon because we are all humans. Even people who believe in lizard people.

In sum, racial theories are bogus, just as bogus as believing the drivel that flows from the InterGossip in violation of reason, caritas, and the 9th Commandment.

And, really, why would China want to off their biggest market for all the stuff we used to make for ourselves?

When we consider the news reports of crimes, domestic violence, car crashes, drug deaths, murders, child abuse, homelessness, and the financial hemorrhage of billions of dollars annually to countries who despise us we must conclude that the only dangers to ourselves are ourselves.

Heck, the last two weeks of impeachment hearings alone constitute a national suicide watch in themselves.

And no Chinese were involved.

-30-

A Berber at the Next Table - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Berber at the Next Table

This afternoon I met a Berber
                                                    A friend
And I were welcomed at a table where
We had never been invited before,
And the men there were studying the Koran.

One fellow said of another that he
Was fluent in four languages. This man
Was silently reading a copy of the Koran.
That is, I inferred that it was the Koran

Because of the green frame around unbroken
And unpunctuated blocks of Arabic script
On each page; for all I know it could have been
A translation of, oh, My Sister the Stripper

The first man had a dual-language copy
And after the purported (I was suspicious)
Linguist read aloud a piece in Arabic
(And it really was), the other read it

Aloud in English, the story of Cain and Abel.
A good discussion followed. And as we left
I asked the man (I don’t remember his name)
What were the several languages he knew:

English, Arabic, Berber, “and a little French.”
Someone in the group asked what Berber is
And I replied that it is an ancient culture
Along the North African shore. Our man

Beamed approvingly (he had been cold-faced)

At my poor knowledge, and told us that, yes
He is a Berber from Algeria.

I wish I could have asked him how it happens
That he is here, but courtesy forbids it
And the rules do too

Another man asked us for our prayers because
He is being transferred to another prison
(The euphemism is “unit”) to serve
Out his long sentence, maybe forever

Another man asked for our prayers because
He is being discharged to “the outside” in 21 days

Ours is a transit camp, with no one staying
Longer than two years, and so with
Some on legal hold
Some serving out their short sentences
And some awaiting space in another prison
Men come and go
And that's a metaphor for life

And I met a Berber today

Peace

Heaves of Gas: The Impreachment Herrings - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Heaves of Gas

On the Impreachment Herrings of 2019

I sing the body eclectic
The folds of bow ties and uniforms

These Misters and Colonels and Honorables Thurston Howell III

Is he a Harvard man or a Yale man?

Bon mots and witticisms flung like elegant poo

These Misters and Colonels and Honorables Thurston Howell III

They rise to points of ordure
They sit amid the car’ved wood
They sit beneath the air-conditioning
They disapprove of each other
Sternly

These Misters and Colonels and Honorables Thurston Howell III

Twittering that he said that she said that they said that she said that he said that she said that they said that she said that he said that she said that they said that she said that he said that she said that they said that she said

Park Avenue in attire
Middle-school faculty commons in speech

Fine, tall young men open doors for them
Fine, tall young men drive them about in polished hearses
Fine, tall young men usher them through corridors
Fine, tall young men guard them, and keep them safe
And push their buttons for the elevators

These Misters and Colonels and Honorables Thurston Howell III

And a sick old man who may or may not have been carried to hospital twitters curses upon them while they twitter sneers upon him and upon each other without ever splitting an infinitive

Heaves of gas
Expensive heaves of gas

O I say these now are the stole!

Scenes from a Rainy November Day - poem cycle

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Scenes from a Rainy November Day

For my Daughter

Dogs

The dogs have completed their dawn patrol
Running and circling in the cold grey drizzle
Barking enemies furry and dogmatic
Completing their…duties…in the fallen leaves

Wagging for me their after-action report
And rightly honored with a well-earned pat
They scamper back to the I-just-made-that-bed
And in their tunneling unmake the made

Pillows and sheets a mess – oh, well, that’s fair -
Little would-be wolves asleep in their lair


Coffee

The breakfast dishes unwashed in the sink
With the excuse that soaking them awhile
Is a good idea, when really it’s just a hope
That someone else will do the washing-up

Coffee is good – better than scrubbing plates
That second cup, taken like a sacrament
In slow and meditative sips, with thoughts
Sailing out into the rain, and back again

Pushing back against those futile wishes -
(There is no one else to wash the dishes)


Writing

A glowing laptop sits upon a desk
Idling patiently, waiting for a thought
To be tapped upon its five rows of keys
The molecules of communication

To be pushed about until they organize
Wandering imaginings into thought
And then sneaked up against another thought
And yet another…that’s not it…delete

Poetry embraces chaos, and finds -
A little more chaos in writers’ minds


Books

Perfect for reading, this stay-inside day
A couch, a lamp, a blanket and a pup
For cuddling up with Hercule Poirot
But he is thinking by the kitchen fire

And Keats is coughing on a window sill
Churchill’s speeches rumble with the toilet flush
Old Yeats is sailing to Byzantium
While Doctor Zhivago is lost in the snow

A book of English verse beside the bed -
Did Pushkin leave books strewn about unread?


Rain

Raindrops, the baptism of summer past
And a half-wild child’s laughing sunlit games
In dancing across the leaf-shaded lawn
And singing silly songs to the butterflies

But now the child is penance-bound in school
Learning to code at a blinking machine
Until the yellow bus splashes her home
To the chili soft-bubbling on the stove

For now -

Dogs and coffee, and writing, books, and rain -
And autumn dreams beyond the window pane

"Today's Second Collection is for our Bishop's Luncheon at This Simply Divine Little Trattoria Just Off the Via della Conciliazone..." - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“Today’s Second Collection is for our Bishop’s Luncheon

at This Simply Divine Little Trattoria Just Off the Via della Conciliazione…”

I. A Catholic Bishop says:

When I was flying first-class to Rome to the Amazon Synod
Taking notes for a sermon telling Catholics
To be green and to sacrifice even more -
I charged all my expenses to the faithful


II. A Catholic Priest says:

When I was flying first-class to Rome to the Amazon Synod
Disapproving of bishops to all my followers
And taking photographs of all my meals -
I tweeted the faithful asking for more money


III. A Catholic says:

When I was up at dawn jump-starting my old car
In the bitter frost so I could get to work…